ess and
sadness,--and of strength. Effaced was the picture of the plodding
recruits with their coarse and ill-fitting uniforms of blue.

Virginia shut the blinds. Not a word escaped her, nor could they tell
why--they did not dare to question her then. An hour passed, perhaps two,
before the shrill voice of a boy was heard in the street below.

"Camp Jackson has surrendered!"

They heard the patter of his bare feet on the pavement, and the cry
repeated.

"Camp Jackson has surrendered!"

And so the war began for Virginia. Bitter before, now was she on fire.
Close her lips as tightly as she might, the tears forced themselves to
her eyes. The ignominy of it!

How hard it is for us of this age to understand that feeling.

"I do not believe it!" she cried. "I cannot believe it!"

The girls gathered around her, pale and frightened and anxious. Suddenly
courage returned to her, the courage which made Spartans of Southern
women. She ran to the front door. Mr. Catherwood was on the sidewalk,
talking to a breathless man. That man was Mr. Barbo, Colonel Carvel's
book-keeper.

"Yes," he was saying, "they--they surrendered. There was nothing else for
them to do. They were surrounded and overpowered."

Mr. Catherwood uttered an oath. But it did not shock Virginia.

"And not a shot fired?" he said.

"And not a shot fired?" Virginia repeated, mechanically. Both men turned.
Mr. Barbo took off his hat.

"No, ma'am."

"Oh, how could they!" exclaimed Virginia.

Her words seemed to arouse Mr. Catherwood from a kind of stupor. He
turned, and took her hand.

"Virginia, we shall make them smart for this yet, My God!" he cried,
"what have I done that my son should be a traitor, in arms against his
own brother fighting for his people? To think that a Catherwood should be
with the Yankees! You, Ben," he shouted, suddenly perceiving an object
for his anger. "What do you mean by coming out of the yard? By G-d, I'll
have you whipped. I'll show you niggers whether you're to be free or
not."

And Mr. Catherwood was a good man, who treated his servants well.
Suddenly he dropped Virginia's hand and ran westward down the hill. Well
that she could not see beyond the second rise.

Let us go there--to the camp. Let us stand on the little mound at the
northeast of it, on the Olive Street Road, whence Captain Lyon's
artillery commands it. What a change from yesterday! Davis Avenue is no
longer a fashionable promenade, flashing with brig